The blush of aqua skies, the welcome to the sun,

she’s a visitor to the garden, but not the early one.

Who pruned the roses sharp? Who staked the Russian Sage?

Who trimmed the yellow daisy, and saw the rise of day?

Lavender’s cut. Lavender’s cradled.

Tied with pink ribbon, carefully shaded.

Lavender’s cut. Lavender’s cradled.

My thirst for sweet dew, now pleasantly sated.

I pruned the roses sharp, I staked the Russian Sage.

I trimmed the yellow daisy, I saw the haze of day.

The flowers in the garden, with roots set deep in earth

are nodding in the breeze and swinging high in mirth.

Lavender’s cut. Lavender’s cradled.

Tied with pink ribbon and carefully shaded.

Lavender’s cut, Lavender’s cradled.

I’ll trust in my faith, my fears are abated.

- Bo (copyright Bo 2007.)

“How many more?”
said the child,
socks around her ankles,
clutching her mother’s
hand.

Small, little thing,
baby sweet,
one gate, two gates,
three, all
just too high to see over,
the world looks
big from down here.

School gate, Nanna’s gate,
Auntie’s gate,
neighbour’s gate,
growly dog at a gate,
little one jumps
double her height,
now gripping Mother’s
kindly hand.

“It’s allright” she
said, “Just one more
and we’re home.”
Mother passes
the little one a
sweet on a stick,
comfort in the
dark valley of
fears.

“It’s allright,
the doggy’s gone” -
Sweet on a stick.
Little one, big
world, every day
an inch smarter -
new shoes soon.

The home gate swings
closed and the sun
sets in the west,
a golden,
kindly, watchful
ball of wise light.

copyright Monika Roleff 2005

Spring is approaching
in the southern
hemisphere -
baby lilacs
are stirring beneath
the green cover,
in the beautiful dark earth,
wondering
how and when
they will best bloom out,
they wait and
dream,
following the signs
and beat of nature.
The dream of
them, the wild
scent, is
our longing for Spring.

copyright Monika Roleff 2005

There is a place
where luminescence shines upon a greening landscape
where thermal currents warm the atmosphere
where songs of solace caress the mourner’s garments
where a fluttering of wings chase gripping fear

There is a place
where trumpets’ blare chase fears of the unknown
where kind whispers lift the cloak of desperation
where clouds give cushion for bodies wracked with pain
where gentle winds blow words of consolation

This place is soul
where light and warmth give comfort from our troubles
where healing rays spread love and ease our hurt
where golden touch provides a sense of well-being
where knowledge of pure love revives our spirit

by Bo Fahrenbach (copyright July 24, 2007)

Inspired by “My Daughter’s in New York”, a poem
by James Reiss

My daughter lives in New York City, twelve hundred miles from me
and claims the sights in the City bedazzle her eyes
and the City’s sounds are in perfect pitch with the singing voice in her head
while tastes of Thai and Greek are simply grand and greasy spoons serve thick
coffee filled with dregs in heavy china cups and
the banana cream pie they create delights her tongue.
She says she thrives on the touch of the sculpture, the statues, the fountains
all nestled in corners and courts, in parks and in churches, near flats.
A sensorium, a melange, myriad of treasure,
she claims none of this exists in her hometown –
perhaps she has simply forgotten.

The only sense she curses is New York’s smell when it’s hundred degrees in July
and there’s a garbage worker’s strike throughout the boroughs
and there’s no place to harbor the trash, except lining each sidewalk and street
and even if you walk in the cooler night air you can’t take a breath for the stink
while in cold weather when the garbage doesn’t steal away your breath
there’s always taxi exhaust and sewer fumes.

In Wisconsin I smell fresh fruit and barbecues and newly mown grass
the early morn fresh and savory
and try to remind her how home is so sweetly scented
but she only remembers the smell of manure from a nearby farmer’s field.

She prefers the stinking garbage of New York.

by Bo Fahrenbach (copyright June 9, 2007)